


Past Tense, Present, Future Perfect

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Birthday Presents, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Boys So In Love, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Greg Lestrade, Sassy Crowley (Good Omens), Seriously they have NO idea, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, divine intervention, do not copy to another site, minor miracles, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Greg Lestrade still hasn't found the right present for his friend's birthday until he unexpectedly finds himself in front of a particularly charming bookshop he's never seen before.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 26
Kudos: 239





	Past Tense, Present, Future Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes the title *is* a grammar pun. Thank you for noticing.

Greg Lestrade sighed.

It had been... a day.

A thoroughly crap 3 days, in fact, of investigation that had left his overtime budget strained and his team exhausted and only the last minute intervention of Mycroft Holmes had seen the damn thing meet its conclusion. Snapping the cuffs on a skell had rarely been so satisfying but Greg was still thanking his lucky stars for a day off, a proper cuppa and his good but unusual friend.

The elder Holmes' birthday was coming up fast, and Greg still hadn't found the right present. He didn't dare shop online for fear the 'minor' government official would somehow know what he was up to and he did so want to surprise him. Sherlock was as useless as a tit on a pinata since he'd bollocksed a case that Mycroft had only just managed to salvage, and so wouldn't be a credible source of suggestions even if he hadn't dragged John off the grid for the better part of a fortnight to fume and lick his wounds. And despite his recent promotion Greg still wasn't the wealthiest man in the world so imagination was his best currency while hunting out something for the man who truly had everything. 

Following a good night's sleep, proper breakfast and a shower, Greg attired himself in jeans, a rock tee and his leather jacket in deference to the chill wind that tended to creep out of nowhere and stick cold blades down one's back. He'd meant to end up in Camden but found himself in SoHo, taking the stairs up from the Underground in stride. Half wrong turn looking for a vintage shop he remembered was nearby and half whispering gut instinct, Greg found himself in front of a particularly charming bookshop he'd never seen before.

_A.Z. Fell & Co._ the sign announced with quiet pride, and something about the cozy light in the windows and the innumerable volumes he could spy drew him like a beckoning siren.

No sooner had the merry little bell above the door betrayed his entrance than a sweet, soft, Southern accent called from the back. "Be right with you."

"No hurry, mate. I'm good," Greg replied as he turned in place, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves, odd knickknacks and gewgaws stashed here and there, and the peace that settled around his shoulders like a fond embrace. Despite a bone-deep certainty he'd never set foot in the place, it felt oddly like... home. It smelled of paper and string and history and... hot cocoa, which merely added to the feeling.

"Ah. Good afternoon, sir." Greg's feet cleared the floor at the unexpected voice at his elbow. He managed to bite back the startled yelp trying to escape and instead drew a breath as he whirled to view the source of the sound. A tea sandwich of a man stood nearly eye to eye, and Greg found his moving over the man trying to assess every detail, thereby missing a similar assessment of his own person. Downy curls the improbably pale hue of dandelion fluff, bright curious eyes, a nose that could only be termed adorable, a mouth turned up politely at the corners, a sedate tartan bowtie under a starched collar, a velveteen waistcoat over a soft blue buttondown, a watch fob, a knee-length jacket slightly out of style yet entirely charming, cream trousers with a crease he could've shaved with, and buffed brown leather shoes. The man's hands were clasped behind his back, making his cuddly torso a bit more prominent.

Greg instantly felt like hugging him, the bizarre intensity of the out-of-nowhere urge keeping him silently rooted where he stood.

After a few minutes, the man's feathery brows rose toward his hairline and his smile stretched a bit. "Something I can help you with?"

Greg's brain finally kicked back into functionality with a few sparks and a small puff of exhaust. "Uh. Yeah. Thanks. I'm... looking for a book. For Myc- for my... friend's birthday."

An odd expression flitted over the man's features like a cloud crossing the sun on a summer day. Time seemed to stretch around them like a heatwave, the room breathing in tandem. It was gone in a blink and the man - whose name Greg just realised he still didn't know - reached out for his elbow and began directing him through the stacks.

"Does your... friend have an especially preferred time of day?"

Nothing except the unpredicted nature of the question prompted Greg to answer. Mycroft was a notorious night owl but on the rare occasions they'd had over the years to break during daylight, there had always been a quiet wonder around sunset. The Golden Hour, Mycroft had informed him - a term which had somehow stuck despite Greg's brain derailing over the way the light painted the man's features and illuminated his hair to a burnished chestnut.

"Yeah, Golden Hour. Y'know, time of day when the sun turns everything a bit soft?" They swiftly broke away from a hand-lettered sign denoting classic horror. 

"Not _Castle of Otranto_ , then. An original of Gothic horror might go appreciated but something else, I think. What about metals? Silver versus gold?" Greg caught a flash of antique Valentines on the end and a white mug with sculpted wings for a handle before they were squeezing between shelves of romantic literature. "Or.... copper, perhaps?" The other man tossed Greg a look over his shoulder and a twinkle flashed in blue-grey orbs that held a humour he could only define as ageless.

_S'no way he knows. S'just a joke. Mycroft would never... he doesn't... uhh..._

"Uhh... think he prefers platinum, if I'm being honest."

"Oh." Without warning the man stopped with a flourishing twirl, Greg coming to a halt a few centimeters from his chest. "Might be right in one regard." The dandelion fluff ruffled as his head tipped to the side. "Though perhaps not in the way one might imagine." The atmosphere was doing that weird flex thing again. Just as Greg noticed his heart skipping a definite beat, the man whipped him around another set of stacks murmuring, "And fare thee well, _Wuthering Heights_. A story about love that isn't quite a love story is all well and good but does your friend have a favourite flower? Most men do, even if they'd never dare confess it."

This one Greg knew well. "He's a bit - okay, a lot traditional, so the expectation would be red roses, but... he's actually got a thing for the blue ones." Greg's lower lip tucked itself under his teeth without permission or thought as he recalled every instance of the man's preference he'd ever witnessed. "Larkspur, irises, cornflower, delphiniums, bluebells and forget-me-nots... yeah." Greg realised with a blink they'd come to a stop nearly where they'd started, bands of sunlight from the windows flanking the door streaking the gleaming hardwood under their feet. Snapped back into focus like a man coming out of hypnosis, he thought to ask his strange companion what all this was about.

"It helps me determine just the thing for the person in question," he answered, producing a sturdy volume in a well-loved paper jacket seemingly from thin air. It was a book Greg instantly recognized, like seeing an old friend after a long absence, and his heart squeezed with nostalgic fondness. _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster, though unlike any copy he'd ever seen. There was no publisher's mark, no page of copyright, the book itself neither hardcover nor typical paperback - instead durable pages bound in what felt like heavy watercolor paper, the title calligraphed dead-center in faded blue ink. Just past the flyleaf, a sole notation was handwritten in flowing cursive: _C. Isherwood, personal - 1963._

"But that... it wasn't... til 71, wasn't it? Posthumous," Greg managed in a reverent hush.

"Commercially, yes." Tenderness glittered in the other man's eyes as he drew in a slow breath through his nostrils, directing his speech to the cover rather than the man holding it. "But Mr. Isherwood was a very dear friend of the author, and so loved this book he privately commissioned a single copy for his birthday." His eyes met Greg's in a soft flick, who suddenly felt like he could cry. "Perhaps the very thing for your dear friend on his."

Greg couldn't fathom how much the thing in his hands might be worth (forget being one of a kind - how did one put a price on such sentiment and history?) but the cost was decidedly out of his reach. The kindly proprietor - for who else could he be? - looked like he was trying to smile while severing a limb and Greg's heart bled for him.

"It's beautiful, perfect even - but I can't." He began to gingerly press the book into the man's hands with the sincerest thanks he could muster when warm fingers wrapped tight around his own. The intensity of the man's expression made it hard to breathe.

"Oh but you can, Greg. And indeed I must insist you do. I find it..." _Impossible?_ "Rather difficult to part with my books. I suppose I fear no one will love them as much as do I, but... I hope you will forgive me... I think this could find a very loving home with you. And your friend."

The DI was on the verge of further protest when he noticed a hand in his peripheral vision and heard the echoing pop of a finger snap - and he was clutching Mycroft's present, securely wrapped in a softly shimmering blue paper with a tartan bow and gosh the giftwrap had been fast! He thanked the man who'd waited on him as he headed out, hand already plucking his mobile from his back pocket and thumbing the screen to dial Mycroft, intent on asking his dear friend to dinner for his birthday. And maybe a chat about their favourite parts of the book over a glass or two of that top-drawer whiskey Mycroft always seemed to have on hand... on that stupidly posh and comfy sofa... and Greg could light a fire maybe.

_Golden Hour at night. Mycroft would like that..._

* * *

Aziraphale had been in the midst of selecting a waistcoat to change into for the late lunch Crowley was collecting him for _any minute_ \- when the bell rang out through the shop. The bell wasn't always a bad sign, but Crowley would have simply appeared and of _course_ there would have to be a customer after a day when there hadn't been _any_ and - oh. Damn. Despite the demon's best efforts to coax out his 'bastard' streak, the angel couldn't manage anything less than courtesy when called for by the situation.

"I'll be right with you," he called, leaving off changing as he hustled back into his coat and took the sparest of instances to smooth any hint of a crumple and sharpen the creases on his trousers.

As he strode through the rear entry he called out, startling the man into wheeling round - and found himself momentarily entranced by the impressive specimen of humanity currently gazing at him like a small child in a sweets shop. The man's hair was a breathtaking silver, his eyes warm and rich as cocoa, his body fit beneath clothes he wore like a second skin, and something... ineffable about the man made Aziraphale want to offer him a drink or miracle up something just to make him smile. 

Even if he _was_ just a human and not a certain Titian-haired demon. 

Even if he _was_ (lamentably) here for a book that he would absolutely **not** be leaving with. 

A few minutes had passed in silence before Aziraphale felt the need to prompt the man instead of simply snapping him onto a park bench in St James' to enjoy the lovely weather. He brightened his expression and asked, "Something I can help you with?"

_A book for his friend's birthday. Oh, how swee- wait. Wait. That... can't be._

As Aziraphale took full notice of the now familiar logo of his demon's favourite band on the man's shirt, he took a spare second to peek beneath - and promptly stretched time out of true as he looked.

The man's heart was **aglow **at the mere thought of his 'friend.' It quite took the angel's breath, this wellspring of love bubbling calmly beneath the surface, waiting to be tapped into and shared and immersed in. As he looked, reading the man the way he might the pages of a favourite tome, the angel reached in a way he had not for many years - and nearly gasped. This bond _(already forged, merely awaiting mutual acknowledgement)_ would be profound indeed. The sort that tethered souls together for eternity, the sort that led to quantum entanglements felt across the expanse of galaxies.

The way he felt about Crowley. And neither man currently saw it.

Instantly he knew he wanted to help, to play the most infinitesimal role in such a love story - even if it meant giving up a book.

A flurrying series of questions now and subtle examination to determine exactly the one - neither horror nor romance nor fantasy. It had to be just right.

And suddenly, sharp and clear as a flaming sword, Aziraphale saw it. Knew to the core before the thought fully formed and in two twitches of his wings they were there, the book already comfortable in his grip. He recalled well the yearning that had accompanied the writing of poor Edward's sequestered masterpiece, the tears of relief Chris had cried upon the first reading of someone who understood, and the work that had gone into copying it - by the angel's own hand all those decades ago. It had been a blessed distraction, something to occupy him in those years before he and Crowley reconnected.

It would have a good home, appreciated and treasured, be a bridge between the friendship of now and the loving promise held by tomorrow. That was enough for him.

And oh dear, the darling homo sapien was still attempting to demur, and all's well in true love but he did have a spot of lunch to attend to and a minor miracle with ancillary benefit could hardly be considered frivolous, now could it?

A snap to hurry things along and no sooner had Greg's foot met the far kerb than the rumble of a familiar engine met his ear. Aziraphale felt his face split into a grin as the demon alighted with supernatural grace and propped himself by the elbow on the roof of his beloved Bentley. 

"Crowley! Hello, my dear." Somewhere between fancy and a trick of the light, Aziraphale swore he spotted the warm glow of golden orbs behind the smoked lenses of Crowley's perpetual eyewear.

"And what'd you get up to today, Angel?" Aziraphale snapped the bookshop closed for the night with a coy smile, heart happily thump-bumping in his chest.

"Oh not terribly much. Just helped a silver fox find his mate."

As he walked to the Bentley where a waiting Crowley stood holding the door, he paused a moment to fix his demon's collar. Crowley rewarded him with an over-the-glasses look of loving mock exasperation before tweaking his angel's bowtie gently askew, settling him inside like the most precious of cargo, clambering into the driver's side and tearing off into the sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, the Mystrade is eventual but also kind of inevitable, and the AziraCrow is ineffably real, so there.
> 
> Not Brit-picked; please be gentle if I got anything wrong.
> 
> This thing was giving me so much trouble, you'd think these guys didn't *want* me to write about them - which considering how they just barge around my brain demanding attention all the time is a bit rude. Any lingering mistakes or dangling plot threads are my own.
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain my soul like crepes and champagne at the Ritz.


End file.
